


Crimson Blood

by TrulyMightyPotato



Series: Royal Flush [41]
Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Stabbing, being beaten up, eight people vs the eight, it goes about as well as you can expect, sometimes the consequences of murder are also murder
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-13
Updated: 2020-12-13
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:54:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28054983
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TrulyMightyPotato/pseuds/TrulyMightyPotato
Summary: A loose end is not tied up nearly as neatly as it's supposed to be.
Series: Royal Flush [41]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/699969
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12





	Crimson Blood

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first short story where we meet Crimson, who is the replacement character for the Faceless who works for Felix. He's gonna be around for the rest of it, so it was about time for a proper introduction.

_ January 1923 _

Sometimes Crimson found himself reconsidering his profession.

It wasn’t a thought he had often, although he supposed most people had it from time to time. He certainly didn’t expect himself to be satisfied  _ all _ the time with being an assassin; it wasn’t exactly the most moral of professions, but it also wasn’t exactly like he was planning on having an extended conversation about the ethics of it with a copper.

He let out a long breath, pulling his hat down lower over his eyes. It was late, the chances of anyone seeing him were already slim, and the chances of them recognizing him for later were even more so, but he was nervous—and cold.

Still, seeing as he’d just murdered Jason Parker, detective, only fifteen feet away from the man’s wife and coworker, he was surprised he was holding it together so well. Sure, he was trained to, he knew he would, and he was perfectly aware that his expression was completely neutral… but that didn’t stop him from screaming incessantly on the inside.

He crammed his hands into his pockets, continuing his rapid pace back to where he’d parked his car a few hours earlier. It was cold, he’d rather not be out longer than he had to, and the more distance he put between himself and the newly-made corpse of Detective Parker, the better.

His fingers brushed over his fake ID, the one he’d used to get a job at Freddy’s, and he hesitated. He had no need for the job now, and the longer he stayed the more likely someone would recognize him when Felix finally did go—though he hoped nobody would. He’d taken care to disguise his normal voice for his shifts at Freddy’s, and his appearance: how he’d styled his hair, how he held himself differently and kept his gaze down.

So what was he going to do about his job as a waiter at Freddy’s? He’d needed it to get close to Detective Parker and switch his drink with wood alcohol, but the job was done now. It was in all of his interests to drop it and make sure he wore his mask when attending for a long time. Maybe growing his hair out would help keep Mark and Ethan from placing him.

He didn’t want to just quit, though. That would require a phone call, which would be traced by the operator; or going in personally to tell Mark himself, which was not something he wanted to do. The point of a fake identity to hide his involvement was to avoid attention, and him suddenly quitting after Parker’s death would only raise suspicion-

A footstep crunched in the snow behind him, light and quiet. Someone not trained as a killer probably would have missed it.

A shadow in the upcoming alley shifted, barely a flicker of motion.

Crimson let out a slow exhale, rendering his breathing virtually inaudible.

The soft click of a gun being prepared for use came from behind him.

“Now, now, gentlemen,” he said softly, though from the immediate silence he knew they heard him, “let’s not do anything hasty. Why don’t you try using your words before you use a gun.”

“You know,” a voice with an Irish accent said, “that was almost impressive. It’s a shame you’re not getting out of this one alive.”

Crimson tilted his head, considering that, even as several more sets of footsteps approached. He was thoroughly pinned—and given the circumstances of what he’d just done, he somehow didn’t think this was a random mugging. Not with this many people. Not with a detective dead.

He shifted his hands in his pockets, reaching for the knives sheathed in his sleeves. They wouldn’t be much good against a gun, not unless he could throw them and have them hit  _ before  _ the approaching man decided to use his gun.

He glanced around the shadows, picking out the telltale human shapes surrounding him. There were eight men. He was good, but he didn’t know if he was that good. The closest building… he could climb it, but he seriously doubted he’d be able to get to the top before a bullet got to him. It didn’t even have to be a well-placed bullet—and with eight men, the chances of all of them missing a shot at him while he ran was... abysmal.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” he said, accepting he wasn’t getting out of this without a fight—and quite probably in a body bag, “who hired you?”

A few shrugs and a scoff from the leader, who raised his gun towards Crimson-

The McLaughlin Boy in the back, taller than all the rest, made a discreet gesture. A Faceless gesture. Crimson had known there were a few in the mob, but the chances of not only encountering one but him recognizing Crimson... did they have mutual friends?

Crimson closed the distance between him and the man with the gun, his movements smooth and sudden, ducking under his arm and wrapping him in a chokehold. He turned so the man was between Crimson and his assailants.

He hated using a human shield, but he needed time to evaluate his options.

The man struggled in his grip, but Crimson hooked his leg around him and pinned him before reaching down and taking his pistol from his grasp.

“We can make this easy,” Crimson warned. “You can just leave and let me go.”

The man reached up and yanked Crimson’s hat down over his eyes, shouting something that was difficult to make out with Crimson’s arm pressing into the man’s throat.

Crimson shook his hat off, only to get decked solidly in the face. He hardly had time to gasp, to blink the tears out of his face, to stumble back, before another three men were on him, kicking and pummeling him. Each blow sent him further off balance, and with four men he couldn’t fight back—especially when two took the opportunity to pin him down.

More than one of his bones snapped, skin tore from the beatings and deep bruises underneath began to bleed heavily. His glasses were shattered with a blow, the broken glass digging into his eyebrow and cheekbone.

The lead man stood, blood glinting dully on his fists in the dim streetlight, a satisfied smirk blatant on his face even with Crimson’s vision swimming.

Crimson gasped for air, the blood running from his nose and mouth and cheek and forehead startlingly warm in the cold night air. Stabbing pain in his chest spiked every time he took a breath, and at least two of his fingers were broken from when someone had stomped on his hand to make him drop the gun. His skull throbbed painfully from the blows, and he was more than sure that at least two of the mobsters attacking him had been wearing brass knuckles to make a more brutal impact.

“Wh-” Crimson spat blood at the feet of the man in front of him, mildly impressed with his own aim. “Who sent you?”

The man cursed. “Do you  _ ever _ shut up?”

“It’s a failing of mine.”

The response was a solid glob of spit on his cheek. Somehow he didn’t think it was good for the gashes on his face.

“Hey,” a new voice said, “I saw a copper down the street, heading this way.” His voice was oddly gentle, given the circumstances. “We should leave.”

“He’s not dead.”

A pause.

“Here.” The voice walked up, revealing himself to be the absurdly tall man from earlier. The Faceless. “I’ll take care of him. You guys get out of here.”

A long hesitation before the first man gave a curt nod and the two holding Crimson up dropped him heavily into the snow dirtied by blood and mud. Crimson wheezed, vision dipping into darkness.

“-course I’ll take care of the body,” the tall man said plaintively. “I’m not stupid.”

“Alright. Good luck, Nogla.”

“Mmhm. Get out of here.”

The vast majority of the men turned and dispersed quickly, leaving Crimson bleeding out in the snow at the mercy of this undercover Faceless.

Nogla turned to Crimson, bending down and grabbing him by the armpits before dragging him into the alley, the ice and gravel underfoot digging into Crimson’s torn and battered body.

“You’re Crimson, right?” Nogla asked, crouching down to Crimson, examining him.

“How’d-” Crimson coughed at the effort of talking, grimacing at the wetness that came from his lungs. “How do you know my face?”

“Ohm’s one of my friends. I saw you two when I visited Quebec a few years ago.” Nogla frowned, like he hadn’t noticed the raw panic that ran through Crimson at that statement. “Think ya can stand?”

Crimson went to push himself up but collapsed with a wheeze as pain shot through his torso.

Nogla slid his arms under Crimson and lifted him. He took a moment to adjust his grip on Crimson, then took off down the alley at a steady clip. Had Crimson been more aware of things, he would have seen his driver’s license fall onto the ground into the bloody snow where he’d laid just a moment before—but he wasn’t. Nogla did, but he was far more concerned about not getting caught with someone bleeding out in his arms, as it was a rather difficult situation to explain to a cop.

“Do you have a car nearby?” Nogla asked breathlessly. “We’ve got to get you to the Faceless hospital.”

“A... few blocks.” Crimson murmured, vision dipping in and out. “Behind the...”

He was leaning up against cold brick, brick so cold it was biting into his numerous injuries, and Nogla was staring down at him in concern.

“Behind where?” Nogla finished unbuttoning his heavy coat, draping it over Crimson.

“Store... Charles and Mt. Vernon.”

Crimson blinked himself awake, though the world swam and faded in and out as he did so. His head was leaning against Nogla’s chest, with the man moving steadily in the shadows. An alley, Crimson assumed.

“How long...” Crimson mumbled, chest too heavy to speak more clearly.

“You’ve been out for a few minutes.” Nogla glanced down at him, then darted into the street. “We’re almost to your car. Are your keys in your pocket?”

Crimson grunted softly.

He must have passed out again, because the next thing he remembered was being gently settled into a seat in a car, heavy warmth dragging him down.

♣♥♠♦

Crimson slowly woke in a bed. The world was blurry, but given that there weren’t glasses on his face, that made sense.

Everything hurt.

A soft meow sounded, and his cat jumped up on his chest, tail swishing.

“Hi,” he said softly.

“Hello,” Ken’s voice greeted. “Welcome back to the world of the living.”

Crimson turned his head to see Ken sitting next to him, a book in his hands. “Oh. Hi to you too.”

“Do you care to explain why the Faceless brought you back half-dead?”

“I got mugged.”

“You’re a Faceless.” Ken closed the book.

“There were eight of them.”

“Ah. That would do it, I suppose.” Ken leaned forward. “I’m glad you made it. News is someone in the area you were found got beaten to death. He fit your description.”

So Nogla had finished the job. He didn’t know who the real victim was, but, really, since he was alive, he supposed he couldn’t complain too much. Such were the trials of their profession.

**Author's Note:**

> Things not featured: Nogla dragging Crimson to Felix's house after getting him patched up at the hospital, but before Crimson's woken up, and offering Ken zero explanation as to what had happened. Just. Plop, here have a Faceless, goodbye, no questions thanks.


End file.
